


A Gentleman's Guide to Seducing Your Fiancé

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Regency, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bad Flirting, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enemies to Lovers, Geralt is a competitive asshole, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier is a little shit, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Lambert and Eskel Ship It, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Prince Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28506621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: It is a truth universally known that Geralt fucking hated Viscount Julien de Lettenhove.Their rivalry was the stuff of legends, the sort that drew the eye and the idle gossip of members of court.  It ensured that each time they came within five feet of the other, the entire room would go still, watchful.  Eager.  For what could be more delicious, more exciting than a fight between the Crown Prince and his new betrothed?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 394
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #03





	A Gentleman's Guide to Seducing Your Fiancé

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points for those of you who can find all the secret Victorian meanings behind courtly behaviors.

It is a truth universally known that Geralt fucking hated Viscount Julien de Lettenhove. 

Their rivalry was the stuff of legends, the sort that drew the eye and the idle gossip of members of court. It ensured that each time they came within five feet of the other, the entire room would go still, watchful. Eager. For what could be more delicious, more exciting than a fight between the Crown Prince and his new betrothed?

* * *

Julian ‘Jaskier’ Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, was a man cut from the finest cloths of the Continent. His ancestry was unparalleled, polished by generations of men and women who were unwilling to accept anything but excellence. He lived without fear of losing his wealth and gained the love of his people by sharing that wealth eagerly. The Pankratz were known to value their people above such paltry things as land and power--though the latter seemed to come to them easily enough.

So it came as no great shock when it was announced that the future Viscount de Lettenhove would ensure the power and constancy of his name by tying himself to the future ruler of the largest kingdom on the Continent. It was perfection. The sort of political and social move that would be whispered of for decades afterward and written into the pages of history as the moment when two great houses would be bound together to form a new, illustrious lineage.

Which was, of course, why it seemed natural that something must go wrong.

The first stirrings of trouble came when the two future partners were first introduced. Their parents had selected the venue with care--a garden party set in place by the Countess of Woodberry. 

She was known for walking the knife’s edge between garish and wondrous decorations and proved it on that day with dazzling sprays of greenery and bright flowers. Her lawns had been fairly covered with the stuff, with only a few spaces set aside for white linen covered tables and space for games. Nobles and courtiers glittered faintly in the late afternoon sunlight, looking eager to lay their eyes on the individual that had been the focus of their gossip for weeks.

Geralt of Riva, the new Crown Prince.

That there was a new Crown Prince already in his thirties was nothing short of scandalous. He was the result of a former marriage in the king’s youth, hidden away out of sight in some far off keep to prevent the same assassination that had nearly cost the king his own life. King Regis had become paranoid, terrified of losing the power he’d spent his whole life trying to maintain. And, perhaps, he would have remained there indefinitely were it not for the ‘sickness’ that took Regis quickly late that spring.

Calanthe, the new queen regent, was left with a kingdom in shambles and a granddaughter far too young to hold the crown on her own. No, Ciri--beloved as she was--could not stand against the claim of an older, male child. Even one that had not been seen at court since they were a child.

In order to ensure that there were no other unexpected problems caused by the loss of the king, the matriarch of their family decided to waste no time tying the Crown Prince to a family that could pave the way for him at court. She considered the oldest names and wealthiest members of the ton before settling on the bright eyed, charming Viscount. Jaskier had all the connections Geralt did not and would be a match unrivaled by any other. A deep dive into the man’s personal affairs assured her that he didn’t have any significant debts, mistresses or bastards hidden away, or anything that would prevent him from supporting her long-lost grandson as king.

She watched the gathered crowd with narrowed eyes, ignoring the heat that had more than a few women who were making use of their fans to try to ward away unwanted sweat. Out of habit, newly gained after discovering her Regis dead in his bed, she tried to imagine who among them might have been the one who slipped the poison into his drink.

Beside her, Viscount Jaskier appeared unphased by the late arrival of his soon to be spouse aside from the way he continued to tap an idle beat on his thigh. The nobleman’s face remained fixed on the doors that would open to reveal her grandson for the first time in nearly three decades. She could feel her heart beginning to race with anticipation and she dropped her hand into the folds of her skirt to hide the way she crossed her fingers in childish superstition.

_ Please let this work. _

* * *

Geralt’s arrival to court had been a truly miserable affair. Two weeks in a rickety carriage and rain leaving everyone in his escort, including himself, covered in mud. He was sure it would take at least four baths before he could feel clean again. It left him grumpy and sore, frustrated by the new rules that kept him from riding Roach or talking with Eskel or Lambert.

It was as though they expected him to be another person with the new title hanging around his neck. He couldn’t laugh or curse or appear like anything besides the human-shaped mannequin they needed to keep the kingdom from falling into chaos. It left him blindingly angry with Calanthe and the rest of the idiots who liked to act like they were better than everyone else just because they had some fucking title at the beginning of their name.

“Looks like someone has begun to brood in earnest.”

Geralt scowled at his oldest friend. “Shut the fuck up, Eskel.”

Another brawny man wearing the black and silver uniform of the royal guard draped a heavy arm around the prince’s shoulder. “Must be tough getting married to some prissy little noblewoman.”

Cursing, Geralt shoved Lambert away and stomped over to the clothes left out for him without bothering to towel himself off. His two oldest friends looked on with matching smirks, refusing to help when he began the laborious process of piecing together his outfit. Their behavior was aided by the years they’d spent together trapped in the city walls of Kaer Morhen, roaming around like a band of wolves. If it weren’t for the occasional letters from his father, Geralt might not have known there was anything separating them from one another.

Eskel nudged his fumbling hands out of the way and straightened his lapel. “At least Ciri will be glad for you to be home.”

“Hmm.” His sister was the only reason he had come here in the first place. 

He had to keep her safe no matter what it cost him.

Reaching up, he tied his long, pale hair back with a leather tie and strode down the corridor, ignoring the servants scurrying in his wake. Lambert and Eskel flanked him like echoes of his own shadow, giving their own version of support as he prepared to step into an entirely new battlefield. He paused outside the massive doors and took a deep breath.

“I can do this,” he whispered--half question, half reassurance.

“Of course you can, your grace,” Eskel murmured beside him.

Lambert snickered. “Surely these prissy fops can’t be worse than Vesemir after we let that bear into the barracks.”

With the image of their old weapons master bolstering his courage, Geralt nodded to the servants by the door and stepped into the bright sunlight. 

Immediately, all sounds of chatter ceased as all eyes snapped to the terrace staircase where he stood. Geralt gritted his teeth and picked Calanthe out of the crowd easily, gold dress matching the heavy crown on her head. He could practically feel her disapproval at his late arrival and arched his brow at her in return, reminding her that he could have avoided this farce entirely.

Excited whispers broke out with each step closer to the queen regent’s dias, growing to a dull roar by the time he came to a stop. He halted a few feet away and bent in an awkward bow. “Your grace,” he said, trying to replicate the fussy tone of his old tutor.

Calanthe stood with a rustle of silks and held her hand out to be kissed. “It is good to see you again, grandson.”

They smiled at one another--the picture of a perfect family and pretended to ignore the way the sight didn’t quite fit the apathy they usually directed at one another.

“Allow me to introduce you to the Viscount de Lettenhove,” she continued, shifting to indicate a lean nobleman at her side. The man was dressed in bright green, cut to show off a narrow waist perfectly balanced by broad shoulders. He caught sight of wicked blue eyes glinting with a humor that begged to darken with passion before he forced himself to focus on his grandmother. “This is Julian.”

Geralt barely spared a glance for the dandy, eager to get this over with. “Just point me in the direction of whatever flabby, simpering idiot you’ve picked out for me to marry.”

There was a gasp nearby and the sound of snapping wood as Calanthe’s fan broke in two places.

But was the dandy beside her that spoke up,

“That would be me,” the Viscount said, baring his teeth in a vicious smile. “Although I prefer to be called Jaskier.”

* * *

Calanthe wasn’t speaking to him.

Her silence would normally be a cause for excitement, if not outright relief, but his grandmother had always been a little too good at getting back at him. She’d taken Jaskier by the arm to ‘promenade’ around the courtyard and abandoned Geralt to the lingering hands and obnoxious conversations of the noblewomen.

Already he’d pulled out two handkerchiefs tucked into his pockets and had dodged one offer of a late night dalliance. Floral perfume filled his nose until his head throbbed in protest and he wanted nothing more than to escape this madness.

“Have you met my daughter Rose, your highness?” a matron wearing a dress in an alarming shade of puce. “She has the most lovely singing voice, you must hear it--

“Actually,” a sultry voice interrupted, “I’ve been sent to escort His Grace to the royal pavilion.”

Geralt turned to find a young noblewoman with thick, wine red hair twisted into a complicated knot that seemed designed to draw the eye to the exposed skin of her neck and collarbone. Her dress was less gaudy than her compatriots, preferring to let the perfectly tailored blush silk ensure she drew the eye to her slim figure and graceful movement. White oleanders had been delicately embroidered on the hem and matched the fan she carried in her right hand. 

She smiled prettily when he finished his perusal and curtsied. “Your Grace, I am Lady Charlotte of Liège.”

He bowed and extended his arm for her to take as they moved away, grateful that the other nobles fell away with only a few disgruntled glances. 

After a moment, Charlotte leaned in to murmur, “I have to tell you something, your grace.”

“Hmm?”

“Calanthe didn’t send me.” When Geralt arched an eyebrow at her, she giggled, “You looked like you needed a rescue.”

He smiled a little. “Thank you, I--”

“There you are!”

Geralt turned in surprise and found Jaskier watching him with a sharp smile directed at Charlotte. The Viscount flapped his hand at her in a dismissive gesture that made her stiffen with dismay. “Thank you for helping my fiance, Charlotte,” he said easily, “but I can take it from here. We are overdue at the badminton court.”

Even without a background at court, Geralt could guess the quick dismissal was meant to be insulting by the way Charlotte stiffened like an affronted cat. He looked over at her in time to see the venomous look she’d shot disappear as she looked back at him. “It was a pleasure to meet you, your grace.”

He bowed to her as she curtsied and walked back to join the rest of the gathered nobles. 

“Well, you move quickly,” Jaskier drawled, “I’m almost impressed. Or should I be heartbroken?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “As if you were interested in anything but my title.”

“It certainly isn’t your sunny personality.”

Growling, Geralt crossed his arms across his chest, hating the way the fabric made him feel claustrophobic. “Was there a reason for your interruption?”

Jaskier continued to walk, looping his arm through Geralt’s to force him to keep moving. “I told you--badminton.”

They stepped onto an area of grass that had been marked with chalk to indicate boundaries along with a thin net to separate the sides. The nobleman reached into a bucket to retrieve two fragile looking rackets and a small birdie. He glanced over at Geralt with a derisive smile when he chose his side, “I assume you know how to play?”

Geralt scowled down at the racket in his hand, shoulders going tight with embarrassment at the barely restrained snickering of his so-called friends behind him. “Of course,” he grunted.

Thus proceeded one of the most infuriating moment thirty minutes of his life.

No matter how hard he hit the stupid shuttlecock, Jaskier’s racket always managed to send it back over the net without any noticeable difficulty. Worse were the ‘encouraging’ comments Jaskier seemed to hurl at him with the same accuracy as he did the shuttlecock.

“Watch your step there, love, you’ll fall on your pretty face.”

“Oh good try! You nearly got it in that time!”

And so on.

By the time the terrified looking scorekeeper called the game in Jaskier’s favor, Geralt was visibly fuming. Sweat had dampened the back of his shirt and had his already tight clothing clinging to him--indecently, judging by the crowd of ogling men and women. In contrast Jaskier looked barely winded and walked over with a polite bow to the score keeper and his partner.

“Good game.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt bit back.

Instead of looking bothered by the insult, Jaskier’s smile only widened predatorily. “Shall we try something else?”

_ Unless you’re afraid I’ll beat you again,  _ his expression said.

Geralt attempted his best ‘I’m going to murder you’ bow. “Lead the way.”

Somehow, croquet is even  _ worse _ .

First, Jaskier pairs him up with a woman who seemed to do nothing else besides attempt to grab his ass anytime he lined up to take his shot. She couldn’t have been less than five hundred years old, but had no problem sneaking up behind him without any sound and groping him when he least expected it. Lambert had to be excused because he was laughing too hard to remain upright. Judging by the smug look on the Viscount’s face as he leaned against his mallet and watched the chaos, he knew  _ exactly _ what he’d done.

Geralt ended the day knowing he’d been beat and swearing it would never happen again.

* * *

It did.

First, it was chess. Then checkers. Geralt even attempted to trick Jaskier into playing a game created at Kaer Morhen and was baffled at how quickly he was able to learn the rules and use them against him. (He still wasn’t sure how he’d managed that.)

It was obvious that behind those bright blue eyes was an untapped storm of evil potential, eager to be released on Geralt whenever possible. Jaskier seemed to have done nothing else in his life, but to practice useless skills to use against Geralt. He was clever, cunning, and--when it wasn’t at Geralt’s expense--funny.

Eskel and Lambert had defected to Jaskier’s side immediately after Geralt’s disastrous garden party. They’d approached the nobleman with their usual lack of tact and had drawn him in, promising to exchange embarrassing stories while Geralt followed and fumed. It felt like there had always been a Jaskier-sized hole just waiting to be filled.

And just like that, Geralt survived his first month at court.

* * *

The library might have been Geralt’s favorite place in the entire castle. It was quiet and held none of the overwhelming colors and smells of the court to muddy his senses. He missed the solace and stillness of Kaer Morhen with a bone deep ache. Missed being able to walk around without worrying about running into nosy nobles or being spotted without his cravat perfectly arranged.

Thankfully, he was almost sure none of the other members of court actually read anything. He’d only seen a few rare glimpses of elderly scholars and the near-silent librarians among the stacks. It made it impossible to resist the pull after a long day of sitting through dull deportment lessons and the stern looks from his tutors. All he wanted was to kick off his too-tight boots and sprawl across the comfortable couch he preferred along the west wall windows. He grabbed the book he’d been looking through the day before and tucked it under his arm before turning another corner and stopping short.

There, eyes closed and long legs sprawled out like a sleeping cat, was the Viscount de Lettenhove.

Geralt froze, trying to fight against the instinctive sensation of feeling like he’d done something wrong by even being there. His eyes darted over the other man--greedy now that he was sure Jaskier wouldn’t catch him looking. 

Jaskier’s usually impeccable clothing was rumpled and loosened to make himself more comfortable. His tail coat was a pale grey that made the ivory and cream of his pantaloons and waistcoat. Black boots polished to a high shine were kicked up on the 

Half of his face was obscured by an upside down copy of--Geralt tilted his head to read better-- _ The Canterbury Tales _ . He’d removed the artfully tied cravat and tossed it across the arm of the chaise lounge, exposing the pale skin of his neck. Geralt traced the length of it, trying to ignore the way his mouth watered with desire. 

What would it be like to be able to drag his mouth across that unclaimed flesh and mark it with the signs of his passion? What would it be like to know the sounds the noblemen made when he shivered apart in bliss?

The Prince took a step forward, so focused on the man before him and the haze in his mind that he didn’t notice the end table until it connected with his knee and screeched across the floor with a godawful ruckus. 

“Fuck!” Jaskier’s startled shout was loud enough that the sleepy eyed librarian turned around the corner to give them both a stern look.

“My apologies,” Geralt said while Jaskier was still looking around in confusion, “I stumbled.”

The librarian flushed a blotchy shade of red when he recognized just who he’d shushed and stumbled away, bowing deeply.

There was a pause and then Jaskier snickered. “If only I’d had you around when that grouchy old fart had me beaten for leaving chocolate fingerprints on one of his precious books--he probably would have apologized to  _ me _ !”

“Did you often destroy books as a child?” Geralt asked, turning to fix the end table to hide the small smile that had grown on his face at the thought of a curly-haired terror running through the stacks.

“You’d think I held ritual book burnings with the way he carried on.” Jaskier’s smile was fond, despite the subject, and he fidgeted with the pages of his book. “But no, I learn my lessons quickly.”

“Hmm.”

Some of the cheer in the other man’s expression dimmed at the customary response from Geralt. “Did you need something?”

Geralt frowned, confused.

“You were standing there like you wanted to speak with me…?” Jaskier looked curious, letting his voice indicate the question in his observation.

“I just came to read. As one usually does in a place such as this,” Geralt said gruffly.

Jaskier’s smile was a little more formal when he nodded and Geralt couldn’t help but feel like he’d missed some opportunity. The Viscount picked up his book and turned it so it was right side up, long fingers running over the pages familiarly. “My apologies, your grace. I will attempt to keep myself from being a distraction.”

Geralt faltered, wishing words came easily to him. His mouth opened--to apologize, to fight, anything but to let the silence fester--but he closed it again in defeat a few moments later. Silently, he settled onto the uncomfortable chair across from the Viscount and pretended to scan the blurry words on the pages of his book.

Somehow, his eyes always drifted back to Jaskier. Lingered there in the soft curve of his cheek and the red that bloomed on his lips when he chewed on them, mouth moving to shape the words of his story.

He looked at Jaskier and wondered what it would be like to taste the words on his lips.

_____________________________

When Geralt settled into his chair at supper, he was no longer surprised to find Jaskier on one side and the Lady Charlotte on the other. The two of them seemed to be bitter rivals and enjoyed one upping one another with clever quips and thinly-veiled insults throughout the meal. For his part, Geralt attempted to stuff as much food into his mouth before any actual blood was shed--in many ways, it wasn’t that different from Kaer Morhen’s barracks.

Tonight, the topic seemed to be an unfortunate haircut Jaskier had suffered through while a teenager.

Charlotte disguised a perfectly vicious giggle behind a gloved hand. “Truly, Geralt. You should have seen him.”

“Have you been elevated to royalty since last we spoke?” Jaskier asked, saccharine sweet. “I can’t think of another reason why you’d be referring to his Highness so informally.”

“Oh, lighten up. We’re friends now, aren’t we?” She directed the last question to Geralt who shrugged and continued to eat roasted potatoes.

  
Jaskier scowled at his plate, quietly furious when Geralt didn't correct her assumption. It was the only explanation for the way his elbow just _happened_ to spill a glass of water into the prince's lap. Cursing, Geralt managed to tip it back upright before it could soak the entirety of the crotch of his pants and threw his napkin over it to hide what had. The twitch of Jaskier's lips made him narrow his eyes and he stole the roll off the edge of the other man's plate in revenge. 

  
  
Around them, the conversations continued as though the Prince and his fiancé's bickering was old news now.

“Is it because I’m a man?” Jaskier asked, abruptly. His expression was blank as he picked over his food. “Royals rarely get the option of choice in who they will partner with, after all.”

Surprised by the glimmer of vulnerability, Geralt toyed with the roll he’d pulled off the other man’s plate. He thought of the dreams he’d been having with startling frequency of late, featuring Jaskier’s wicked smile directed at him with an entirely different intent, and shook his head. “Gender has never mattered to me.”

“Ah.” Jaskier’s expression was bitter. “Just personality, I guess.”

Geralt was saved from a response when Lambert leaned forward to snag the roll from his hand and take a big, smacking bite from it. Scowling, Geralt watched his friend dance out of reach before he looked back at the man at his side, “Jaskier...you must know that I--”

A crash behind him made him pause, turning in time to see Lambert turn a mottled shade of purple and collapse.

* * *

“Poison?” Calanthe repeated in the wake of the somber doctor’s analysis of the now sleeping warrior. “How is that possible? We’ve had round the clock guards watching all of the food preparations.”

“Will Lambert be alright?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt spared a moment to be grateful for the question he couldn’t seem to speak out loud. His eyes remained fixed on the pale, listless face of his childhood friend. Lambert had eaten the roll meant for him and nearly  _ died _ for it. He wouldn’t even  _ be _ here if it weren’t for Geralt.

The doctor nodded, “He’ll be fine with a bit of rest. Don’t you worry.”

He listened to Jaskier thanking the man for his assistance and Calanthe arguing with her guards about the security lapse without a sound. It wasn’t until a gentle hand wrapped around his waist that he was jerked out of his spiraling thoughts.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Jaskier said quietly.

Geralt flinched. Somehow the nobleman had a knack for digging through his glowers and grunts to the truth of what he was thinking with shocking skill. It didn’t make it easier for him to accept, however. “It is.”

“Lambert knew what he was getting int--”

“No, he didn’t,” he interrupted. “They followed me because they were ordered to.” The reminder made him release a bitter laugh. “Just like you were ordered to marry me.”

“Geralt, you must know that I--”

Instead of listening to another one of Jaskier’s honeyed speeches, Geralt moved away abruptly. He turned away from the hurt expression on the other man’s face to glare down at his own boots. “Eskel,” he called briskly, “see to it that the Viscount is escorted safely to his rooms and a guard is kept with him at all times.”

“ _ Geralt-- _ ”

Ignoring the voices calling after him, Geralt turned on his heel and left the room. It was the only way to keep them all safe.

  
  


He made his way down the corridor as quickly as he could, grateful that the late hour ensured that no one else was around to bother him. 

At the center of the oldest wing of the castle was a courtyard garden that had been completely overwhelmed by the sprawling branches of a massive yew tree. It scattered yellowed leaves onto the ground to choke out whatever flowers might have tried to grow there. None of the courtiers liked to spend much time here when the royal gardens provided a much more festive backdrop to their fripperies.

Geralt settled into the roots of the old tree, wishing he could feel rooted to this place in the same way. When he’d received the news of his father’s death, he’d barely reacted--the loss blunted by time and distance. He stared down at his own shaking hands now and realized he finally had something he desperately didn’t want to lose. If Lambert hadn’t taken the poisoned food from him--

“Your Highness?” He turned to find Charlotte stepping through a nearby doorway. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

She crept closer, unbothered by his gruff tone. “Is your guard going to be okay?”

He nodded. “Thankfully he only took the one bite.”

“Yes--such a waste though.”

Geralt looked up in surprise at her blase tone to find her watching him with something manic lurking behind her whiskey colored eyes. “What?”

“You really should be more careful, your Highness--especially after our poor King was poisoned.”

He felt like the ground shifted oddly beneath his feet as things began to make a terrible sort of sense. ”How did you know the king was poisoned?”

Charlotte dimpled at him, taking another step towards him. “You’re more clever than I expected,” she said, almost proud. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for years now. Ever since my nursemaid told me about you, I knew we were destined to be together.”

Geralt swallowed, wishing he’d thought to bring a weapon with him. “You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t be silly, my love,” she giggled. “I’m going to be your Queen.”

“I’m already engaged. To Jaskier.”

A dark cloud passed over her face and he was reminded of how often Charlotte had appeared whenever he was with Jaskier. Or the way they’d seemed to antagonize each other endlessly. 

That quickly, her face cleared and she was back to being the harmless courtier he’d first met. “Yes, but that can be taken care of easily. One way or another.”

“You poisoned the food,” he said slowly, putting more of the puzzle together. “I took it off his plate and Lambert stole it from me.”

“An unfortunate result. You must know I’d never harm one of your dear friends intentionally.”

“You were trying to kill Jaskier.” He can’t manage to keep the mounting horror out of his voice. Then, “You poisoned the  _ king _ .”

He thought of the letter that had come with his summons back to court, brief and direct as any of the messages passed along from Calanthe:

_ Trust no one. Regis did not die from natural causes. _

Charlotte reached out for him, pouting prettily when he only backed further against the rough bark of the tree. “Don’t you see, Geralt? I  _ had _ to. It’s the only way we can be together.”

_ “We aren’t together!” _

“Geralt?” They both froze in surprise at the sound of Jaskier’s voice and turned to see the nobleman stepping into the courtyard, blue eyes darting back and forth between them. He frowned. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Geralt stood, limbs awkward with adrenaline and threw out a hand trying to keep the other man away from Charlotte. “Jaskier!” he shouted, suddenly terrified of what Charlotte might do to the other man. “Get out of here!”

“Don’t move.”

Both men turned in time to see Charlotte pull a pistol free from the folds of her robe. It’s one of the single shot duelling pistols he’s seen mounted on more than a few noblemen’s parlor walls like some sort of macabre decoration. Her hands were steady though as she raised it to point at the center of his chest. With only a few yards separating them, there was little doubt that she would hit her target.

Jaskier made a kicked sound, paling as he realized just what he’d walked into. His eyes darted back and forth between Geralt and Charlotte, frantic.

“You have to break off the engagement,” Charlotte said calmly, looking as though she were asking for him to escort her to a dance. “Once he’s gone, we can be together.”

“You’re a murderer!” he spat back in disgust, scanning the space around him for some way to escape this madness. “How could I ever agree to marry you?”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide with shock and Geralt watched his jaw clench, beginning to sidle closer instead of running for safety.

“Geralt--darling, you don’t understand,” Charlotte shook her head, beginning to frown at Geralt’s continued refusals. “I did this for  _ us _ . I was always supposed to be your queen--it’s why I killed your father! You would have been locked away forever if he’d had his choice.”

“He was keeping me away from people like you! You just want to use me to get your hands on the crown.” 

He felt his stomach roil with each word, disgusted at the reminder of all the things he’d been glad to avoid in Kaer Morhen. If only he’d stayed there. He would never have known what it was like to realize the person he’d thought he’d known was a ruse. He would never have known--

_ Jaskier _ .

The nobleman continued to inch closer, his eyes still focused on the gun in Charlotte’s hand with the same expression he wore when he was about to beat Geralt in a game. Geralt’s heart began to pound.

“Well.” Geralt stared at her as her voice went terribly blank, pursing her lips like she was mildly disappointed in the entire affair. “That is disappointing. I had hoped that I would be able to keep you around long enough to at least have an heir to solidify my claim--but I suppose I can just tell the guards we were married in secret before Jaskier murdered you.”

She raised the gun, cocking it with a smile. “Goodbye, Geralt.”

_ “No!” _

Geralt heard the crack of the gunshot just as something heavy slammed into him. He flinched, going down hard against the rough wood of the tree at his back. He prepared himself for the inevitable pain, the drip of blood, and growing weakness. Instead, he found himself covered with a familiar body and the sharp scent of iron.

Distantly he heard the shout of the guards that must have been tailing Jaskier, but all he could focus on was the growing stain spreading across the nobleman’s chest.

“ _ Jaskier _ ,” he said, panicked.

The word seemed to sap the strength out of the other man because he let out a groan and rolled to the side, blinking up at the leaves above them. Geralt sat up quickly, reaching out dumbly and pausing a few centimeters above the gunshot wound that had been meant for him.

“Pretty...heroic,” Jaskier gritted out, pale with pain, “Don’t you think?”

“Why would you do that? You should have just run for the guards.”

“Couldn’t let her hurt you.”

Jaskier gasped as Geralt stripped his jacket and pressed it clumsily against the bleeding wound. His hands trembled and he turned to make sure Charlotte was safely away, body curved protectively over his fiance. A gentle hand brushed across his own and he looked down to see Jaskier smiling softly at him. “Careful, darling,” he murmured, “I’m beginning to think you are falling for me.”

Geralt scowled, torn between the familiarity of their bantering and his own fear. “Shut up, you ridiculous man, and stop bleeding.”

His smile only grew even as his eyes went slitted, seemingly content to lie there on bloodied earth with Geralt’s hands pressed against him. “So embarrassing...people will talk.”

“And if it’s true?” The words are barely above a whisper, but Jaskier’s eyes opened with something close to hope shining through as Geralt continued, “If I am in love with you?”

For the first time, Jaskier’s triumphant grin made something inside him loosen, warm with a new knowledge and hope for the future.

“Then we’d be a matching set.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!


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